Memoirs of a Dying Italian
by friedzoaster
Summary: Exactly what the title sounds like. Just some small writing while I'm bored, 'The Existence of Love is Optional' is my top priority. However, I will continue.


My name is Lovino Vargas. I am twenty-two years old, and I am dying.

Well.

Technically you could say everyone is dying, in a sense- your whole life you are dying as you get older and your bones get all rackety and you start using god-awful expressions like "knee high to a grasshopper" and start knitting woolen sweater sets for your grandchildren, that whole time, you are dying.

At least that's how I see it.

I guess I should be glad, in a sense, that I won't live long enough to see myself hunch over and my hair fall out, that I will die before I actually start finding Thursday night soap operas actually _interesting._

I mean, god, he's such a douchebag and Melissa should just break up with him already, but of course I don't know anything about that because I would never watch Crown Nation Street reruns on Thursdays after Antonio is all tucked in his little beddie.

But still. It's- you know, dying.

Even though its slow, even though you hardly notice it until you shower and look in the mirror and see how much weight you've lost, how your voice starts creaking and your hair is thinning, it doesn't seem real.

But it is. Really real. Really, really real and sometimes you wish it wasn't, that you could have some happy ending, 'live happily forever and ever surrounded by rainbows and bunnies.'

Or maybe not. Gag.

Antonio still actually believes that we might make it. I'm not so optimistic, or as I call it, naïve, to think that. He's the sort of guy who loves fairy tales, loves happy endings and rainbows and bunnies and god knows what else. He always says that we'll have a happy ending, that even though there's about a 0% chance we might actually live, we'll still be okay.

I don't believe that. I don't think he actually does either, but he says it, as if it's a magic spell and once he's said it, it must come true, maybe to reassure himself or maybe just to pretend it's not real and that we're living in Never-Never Land.

It doesn't _feel _like dying. Of course, that's the meds doing their job, but it really doesn't feel like I'm dying. It didn't feel like it before, either. I just thought it was a typical flu, until Antonio took me in, that over-caring fastidious idiot. If we had gotten to the doctor just a week or two earlier, if Antonio had only gotten tested then and not later… well, I wouldn't be writing this.

Just four little letters. Four tiny, inconsequential members of the alphabet which make up our language made all the difference.

A.I.D.S.

* * *

It was Antonio's birthday. I was going to give him something special, a present- my virginity.

I mean, it sounds like a big deal and I guess it kind of was, but I think I had known all along that he would be my first. The only real question was when, and it was then.

After dinner and a movie and some cuddling, I suggested we go to bed early. He was confused, but he said yes. I got into bed, stark naked. Well. Except for a sweater. What? It was cold, okay! Anyway, he came in and as always, he goes straight next to me. His eyes went wide and he looked at me, questioningly, but he said nothing. I merely nodded and he smiled. We cuddled and then we kissed and then we kissed some more and things got a bit steamy and my sweater found its way up and over my head…

"Do you have one?" I asked. He gasped.

"Shit, I forgot! I'll go get one," he threw the covers back and jumped out of bed, looking for a condom. After a couple minutes of waiting, I put my sweater back on. It was cold and I was getting a bit miffed waiting for Antonio. I mean, god, did I have to do all the work myself?!

After a while he came back. "I can't find one," he said, panicked. I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, forget it. We'll be fine. Just as long as you don't have green mold growing down there or whatnot." He smiled and got back into bed and the sweater found its way up my neck again and…

Well, you know what happened.

* * *

About a week after, I started feeling slightly ill. Nothing big, just cold stuff- you know, headache, fever, night sweats, that sort of thing. Antonio had been feeling poorly too for a while, but he was always getting colds so we figured it was no big deal. After a while the 'flu' or whatever it was started getting really bad, for both of us, and we went to the doctor.

First they checked our symptoms, then our temperatures and etcetera. Then they wanted to take a blood test. I thought that was a bit weird, you normally don't get blood tested for flu. But hey, a small vial of blood didn't make any difference, so why not?

I almost wish we didn't get the blood test, that we didn't know and we could just die ignorantly and happily together. But instead, we get to die knowledgeable, unhappy, one after the other, separately.

Whoopee.


End file.
